LINCOLN  ROOM 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


MEMORIAL 

the  Class  of  1901 

founded  by 

HARLAN  HOYT  HORNER 

and 
HENRIETTA  CALHOUN  HORNER 


1  Mill   and   Dam. 

2  Jacob   Bales. 

3  McNamara's  Store,  where  Lincoln 

kept  Post  Office. 

4  The    Log   Tavern,    by    H.    Onstot, 

where     Lincoln     boarded     from 
1833  to  1835. 

5  Dr.  Allen's  Residence. 

6  Aleck  Fergesson's  Cabin. 
7.  Hill's    Store. 

8  Hill's   Residence. 

9  The  Carding  Machine. 

10  Martin  Waddle,  Hatter  Shop. 


11  William  McNeely. 

12  Henry  Onstot's  Cooper  Shop. 

13  Henry  Onstot's  Residence. 

14  Miller's  Blacksmith  Shop. 
15-16  Miller  and  Kelso  Residence. 

17  Road  from  Petersburg. 

18  Road  from  Mill— West. 

19  Springfield  Road — South. 

20  The   Lincoln  Cellar, 

with  the  Three  Trees  Growing. 

21  Grave   Yard. 

22  School  House. 

23  Gander   Pulling. 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN 

MISS  ANN  RUTLEDGE 

NEW  SALEM 
PIONEERING    *   THE    POEM 


A  LECTURE 

Delivered  in  the  Old  Sangamon  County  Court  House 
November,  1866 


BY 


WILLIAM  H.  HERNDON 


SPRINGFIELD.  ILLINOIS 
1910 


COLLECTOR'S  EDITION 
Limited  to  1  50  signed  copies,  of  which  this  is  No. 


Copyright,  1910 


FOEEWOED. 


Among  the  many  who  have  written  of  Abraham 
Lincoln,  none  surpass  in  interesting  statement  and 
forceful  expression,  his  long  time  law  partner,  Wm. 
H.  Herndon.  This  remarkable  address  of  Mr.  Hern- 
don's  has  never  before  been  published,  and  is  prac- 
tically unknown  to  collectors  of  Lincolniania.  It  was 
delivered  as  a  lecture,  on  an  evening  in  November, 
1866,  to  a  very  small  audience  gathered  in  the  old 
Sangamon  County  Court  House,  on  the  east  side  of 
the  public  square,  in  Springfield,  111.  It  was  after- 
wards printed  at  length,  as  here  given,  as  a  broad- 
side, but  owing  to  this  unfortunate  choice  of  form, 
it  quickly  disappeared  and  at  present  but  three 
copies  are  known  to  exist — one  in  the  Illinois  State 
Historical  Library,  where  it  was  placed  by  the  late 
Dr.  A.  W.  French,  another  in  the  library  of  Dr.  Wil- 
liam Jayne,  who  purchased  it  from  the  late  Joseph 
Wallace,  and  a  third  which  the  publisher,  such  is 
his  faith,  hopes  soon  to  add  to  his  private  collection. 

Newspaper  comment,  made  at  the  time  of  its  de- 
livery, was  invariably  unfavorable,  and  this  recep- 
tion of  his  carefully  prepared  lecture,  doubtless  de- 
termined Mr.  Herndon  in  not  repeating  it. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

ANN  RUTLEDGE 

NEW  SALEM 
PIONEERING  AND  THE  POEM 


BY  WILLIAM  H.  HEENDON. 


Ladies  and  Gentlemen: — 

I  am  about  to  deliver  a  Lecture  tonight  on  Abra- 
ham Lincoln,  Miss  Ann  Butledge,  New  Salem,  Pio- 
neering, and  the  Poem  commonly  called  Immortality 
or  "Oh !  Why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud?" 

Lincoln  loved  Ann  Rutledge  better  than  his  own 
life;  and  I  shall  give  the  history  of  the  poem  so  far 
as  to  connect  it  with  the  two  in  its  own  proper  place 
and  time. 

The  facts  in  relation  to  Abraham,  Ann,  and  the 
poem,  making  a  complete  history,  lie  in  fragments 
in  the  desk  at  my  office,  in  the  bureau  drawers  at  my 
home,  and  in  my  memory — in  the  memories  of  men, 
women  and  children  all  over  this  broad  land,  and 
especially  in  the  counties  of  Menard  and  Sangamon, 
covering  an  area  of  sixty  miles  square. 


The  facts,  I  say,  are  fragmentary.  They  lie  float- 
ing on  the  memories  of  men,  women  and  children  in 
and  about  New  Salem,  and  in  and  about  this  city. 
This  lecture  is  but  a  part — a  small  part — of  a  long, 
thrilling  and  eloquent  story.  I  have  not  here  told 
the  whole  story;  nay, -not  the  half  of  it;  nor  can  I 
do  so  here  understandingly,  for  the  want  of  time. 
I  am  forced  to  keep  something  back  from  necessity 
which  shall,  in  due  time,  assume  a  more  permanent 
form.  That  which  is  withheld  is  just  as  interesting, 
and  more  lovely,  than  I  here  can  tell  or  relate.  Some 
one  has  said  that  "truth  is  stranger  than  fiction;" 
and  as  it  is  stranger,  so  it  is  sometimes  more  beauti- 
ful and  more  sad.  We  see  the  truth;  we  feel  it;  it 
is  present,  and  we  deeply  sympathize  with  it. 

All  human  life  is  more  uncertain,  and  it  may  rea- 
sonably be  thought  that  the  invisible  and  intangible 
threads  that  enwrap  and  tie  up  life,  may  be  sud- 
denly snapped,  and  historic  events  of  great  interest 
and  importance  to  mankind — lost  forever.  I  do  not 
think — wishing  to  arrogate  nothing  to  myself — that 
any  living  man  or  woman  so  well  understands, 
the  many  delicate  wheels  and  hidden  springs  of  the 
story  of  Lincoln,  Miss  Eutledge,  the  Poem,  and  its 
relation  to  the  two,  in  time  and  place,  as  I  do.  My 


pecuniary  condition  will  not  let  me  rest.  Duty  to 
myself,  my  family,  and  my  clients,  holds  me  sternly 
to  my  profession.  I  cannot  drop  these  duties, 
spurred  on  by  necessity,  as  I  am,  to  sit  down  and  at 
once  furnish  the  long  contemplated  life  of  Mr.  Lin- 
coln. I  am  compelled  to  walk  slowly,  but  what  I 
shall  lose  in  speed  I  shall  gain  in  volume  and  cer- 
tainty of  record.  To  put  these  fragmentary  facts 
and  historic  events  therefore  beyond  danger,  I  con- 
sent tonight  to  speak,  write  and  utter  what  I  know.  I 
have  no  right  to  retain  facts  and  events,  so  import- 
ant to  a  good  understanding  of  Mr.  Lincoln's  life,  in 
my  own  selfish  bosom  any  longer.  I  rest  under  a 
sacred  duty  to  mankind,  to  relate  the  facts  and  nar- 
rate the  circumstances  that  lawfully  and  truthfully 
belong  to  the  story.  I  owe  to  man  the  facts  and  the 
story  which  shall  soon  become,  I  believe,  not  through 
me,  as  to  artistic  beauty,  one  of  the  world's  most 
classic  stories. 

You  know  my  Religion,  my  Philosophy  namely: 
That  the  highest  thought  and  acts  of  the  human  soul 
in  its  religious  sphere,  are  to  think,  love,  obey  and 
worship  God,  by  thinking  freely,  by  loving,  teaching, 
doing  good  to  and  elevating  mankind.  My  first  duty 
is  to  God,  then  to  mankind,  and  then  to  the  indi- 


vidual  man  or  woman.  I  wish  to  perform  my  duty 
honestly  and  truthfully.  -I  do  not  wish  to  awaken 
or  injure  the  dead,  nor  to  wound  or  injure  the  feel- 
ings of  any  living  man  or  woman.  I  am  glad — nay, 
happy, — to  be  able  to  speak  to  my  own  fellow  citi- 
zens of  this  city — neighbors,  friends,  and  enemies 
too,  tonight,  so  near  the  scene  and  facts  that  I  am 
about  to  relate.  Each  one  of  you,  every  man, 
woman  and  child,  has  the  same  powers,  the  same 
means,  opportunities  and  capacities  I  have,  to  hunt 
up,  find  and  criticise  the  facts,  know  them  and  to 
verify  them,  each  for  himself. 

The  truth  of  the  story  is  open  to  all  alike,  rich 
and  poor,  energetic  and  lazy.  If  any  man  or  woman, 
or  child,  after  hearing  this  lecture,  still  doubts  what 
is  here  told,  let  him  or  her  come  to  my  office  and 
have  all  skepticism  wiped  out  at  once  from  his  or 
her  mind.  There  is  no  doubt  about  the  story;  there 
can  be  none.  I  want  only  truth,  and  I,  in  common 
with  all  mankind,  for  all  time  to  come,  am  deeply 
interested  to  have  the  facts  known  exactly  as  they 
are,  truthfully  and  substantially  told. 

If  I  am  mistaken  substantially  in  any  particular, 
or  in  general,  expose  me  by  exposing  the  error. 
I  am  willing  that  my  character  among  you  may 

10 


stand  or  fall  by  the  substantial  truthfulness  of  this 
lecture  in  every  particular.  I  want  no  doubts  to 
hang  over  the  subject,  nor  shall  they  so  hang  if  I 
can  avoid  it,  between  the  honest  gaze  of  mankind 
and  their  search  for  truth,  blurring  their  mental 
vision. 

Truth  in  history  is  my  sole  and  only  motive  for 
making  this  sad  story  now  public  for  the  first  time. 
History  is  sacred,  and  should  be  so  held  eternally  by 
all  men.  What  would  you  give  for  a  manly,  honest, 
candid  and  noble  biography  of  Washington?  Let 
the  universal  regrets  of  mankind  fix  the  price  and 
stamp  the  value. 

The  facts  which  I  shall  relate,  including  the  scen- 
ery of  New  Salem,  shall,  in  my  humble  judgment, 
throw  a  strong  foot-light  on  the  path  of  Abraham 
Lincoln,  from  New  Salem,  through  Springfield,  to 
and  through  Washington,  to  the  grave.  They,  to 
me,  throw  their  rays  all  over  Mr.  Lincoln's  thoughts, 
acts,  deeds,  and  life,  privately,  domestically,  socially, 
religiously  and  otherwise.  I  hope  they  will  to  you. 
I  dare  not  keep  these  facts  longer.  Men  need  to 
read  history  by  a  blazing  light.  This  is  my  apology 
for  the  publication  of  these  facts  now,  and  I  appeal 
to  time  for  my  defense.  The  world  needs  but  one 

11 


other  set  of  facts  to  get  the  whole,  almost  the  divine 
light,  that  illuminates  Mr.  Lincoln's  pathway.  The 
facts  are  a  little  older  than  he  was — some  a  little 
younger.  Will  the  world  dare  hear  them  and  defend 
the  man  that  tells  them? 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  friends,  enemies,  too,  give 
me  the  good,  kind,  sad  and  tender  corner  of  your 
hearts  tonight,  not  forgetting  your  heads.  Ann 
Eutledge  was  a  beautiful  girl  of  New  Salem  from 
1824  to  1836.  She  was  born  in  Kentucky,  January 
7th,  1813.  She  was  a  grandchild  of  the  liberty-loving 
patriotic  Eutledges  of  South  Carolina.  Her  father 
was  born  in  South  Carolina,  amid  the  echoes  of  the 
cannon's  revolutionary  roar.  Mr.  Lincoln  lived  in 
New  Salem  from  1830  to  1837,  and  boarded  for 
awhile  with  Cameron,  who  was  a  partner  of  Mr. 
Eutledge.  Mr.  Lincoln  soon  changed  his  home.  He 
went  and  boarded  with  Mr.  James  Eutledge  about 
the  year  1833  and  1834,  and  then  and  there  first  be- 
came well  acquainted  with  Ann  Eutledge.  He  may 
have  known  her  well  before  this.  I  have  no  space 
here  to  give  a  description  of  this  beautiful,  amiable, 
and  lovely  girl  of  nineteen.  She  was  gifted  with  a 
good  mind.  Three  good  and  influential  men  of  the 
little  village  of  New  Salem,  simultaneously  fell  in 

12 


love  with  this  girl — A.  Lincoln,  Mr. ,  and  Mr. 

.     The  third  man  she  quickly  rejected.     He 

was  a  gentleman ;  so  was  Lincoln ;  so  was  Mr. . 

All  these  men  were  strong  men,  men  of  power,  as 
time  demonstrated.  Circumstances,  fate,  Provi- 
dence, the  iron  chain  of  sweeping  events,  so  willed 
it  that  this  young  lady  was  engaged  to  Mr.  Lincoln 

and  Mr. at  the  same  time. 

No  earthly  blame  can  be  attached  to  the  girl,  and 
none  to  the  men  in  their  fidelity  and  honor  to  her. 
It  all  so  happened,  or  was  decided  by  fate.  It  shall, 
in  truth,  be  explained  hereafter  to  the  satisfaction 
of  all.  It  is  a  sad,  thrilling  story.  The  young  girl 
saw  her  condition.  Her  word  of  promise  was  out 
to  two  men  at  the  same  time,  both  of  whom  she 
loved,  dearly  loved.  The  consciousness  of  this,  and 
the  conflict  of  duties,  love's  promises,  and  womanly 
engagements,  made  her  think,  grow  sad,  become 
restless  and  nervous.  She  suffered,  pined,  ate  not 
and  slept  not.  Time  and  struggle,  as  supposed  and 
believed  by  many,  caused  her  to  have  a  raging  fever, 
of  which  she  died  on  the  25th  of  August,  A.  D.  1835. 
She  died  on  a  farm  seven  miles  north,  bearing  a  lit- 
tle west  of  New  Salem,  and  now  lies  buried  in  the 
Concord  graveyard,  six  miles  north,  bearing  a  little 

13 


west  of  New  Salem,  and  four  miles  from  Petersburg. 

On  Sunday,  the  14th  day  of  October,  A.  D.  1866, 

I  went  to  the  well  cultured  and  well  stocked  farm  of 

Mr. .    I  went  with  book  in  hand,  in  search  of 

facts.  I  have  known  the  gentleman  whom  I  visited, 
for  more  than  thirty  years.  He  received  and  wel- 
comed me  into  his  house  most  cordially,  and  treated 
me  most  hospitably.  He  acted  like  a  gentleman,  and 
is  one.  He  is  the  man  who  knows  all  the  story  so 

far  as  it  relates  to  .    He  knows  it  and  has 

.     He  owns  the  on  which  the  young 

girl  died;  and  if  I  could  risk  a  rapid  and  random 

opinion,  I  should  say  he  purchased  the  in 

part,  if  not  solely,  because  of  the  sad  memories  that 
cluster  over  and  around  it.  The  visit  and  my  task 
were  truly  delicate.  Without  holding  you  longer  in 
uneasy  and  unnecessary  suspense,  from  what  took 
place  then  and  there,  permit  me  to  say,  that  I  asked 
the  gentleman  this  question:  "Did  you  know  Miss 
Butledge?  If  so,  where  did  she  die!"  He  sat  by 
his  open  window,  looking  westerly,  and  pulling  me 
closer  to  himself,  looked  through  the  window  and 

said:      "There,  by  that  "  choking  up    with 

emotion,  pointing  his  long  forefinger,  nervous  and 
trembling,  towards  the  spot — "there,  by  that  cur- 

14 


rant  bush,  she  died.  The  old  house  in  which  she  and 
her  father  died,  is  gone." 

I  then,  after  some  delay,  asked  the  further  ques- 
tion: "In  what  month  and  year  did  she  dief" 
He  replied,  "In  the  month  of  August,  1835."  After 
further  conversation,  leaving  the  sadness  to  momen- 
tarily pass  away,  I  asked  this  additional  question: 
"Where  was  she  buried?"  In  reply  to  which  he 
said,  "In  Concord  burying  ground,  one  mile  south- 
east from  this  place."  "Can  you  tell  me  exactly 
where  she  lies  buried?"  I  remarked.  He  said,  "No, 
I  cannot.  I  left  the  country  in  1832  or  1833.  My 
mother  soon  after  died,  and  she  too,  was  buried  in 
the  same  little  sacred  graveyard,  and  when  I  re- 
turned here  in  1835  I  could  find  neither  grave.  The 
Berrys,  however,  may  know  Ann's." 

To  Berry's  I  speedily  went,  with  my  friend  and 
guide,  James  Miles.  The  time  was  11 :20  a.  m.,  Sun- 
day, the  14th  day  of  October,  A.  D.  1866.  I  found 
S.  C.  Berry  at  the  Concord  church,  a  little,  white, 
neat  meeting  house,  that  crowns  the  brow  of  a  small 
knoll  overlooking  Concord  creek — Berry's  creek, 
southward.  S.  C.  Berry,  James  Short — the  gentle- 
man who  purchased  in  Mr.  Lincoln's  compass  and 
chain  in  1834,  under  an  execution  against  Lincoln, 

15 


or  Lincoln  and  Berry,  and  gratuitously  gave  them 
back  to  Mr.  Lincoln — James  Miles  and  myself,  were 
together.  We  all  went  into  the  meadow  eastward 
of  the  church  and  sat  down  in  the  shade  of  a  walnut 
tree.  I  asked  Mr.  Berry  if  he  knew  where  Miss 
Butledge  was  buried — the  place  and  exact  surround- 
ings! He  replied:  "I  do.  The  grave  of  Miss  Eut- 
ledge lies  just  north  of  her  brother's,  David  Eut- 
ledge, a  young  lawyer  of  great  promise,  who  died  in 
1842,  in  his  27th  year." 

I  went  from  the  neat  little  church  to  the  Concord 
burying  ground,  and  soon  found  the  grave  of  Miss 
Ann  Eutledge.  The  cemetery  contains  about  one 
acre  of  ground,  and  is  laid  out  in  a  square.  The 
dead  lie  in  rows,  not  in  squares,  as  is  usual.  The 
ground,  the  yard,  is  beautifully  situated  on  a  mound, 
and  lies  on  the  main  road  leading  from  Springfield, 
in  Sangamon  County,  to  Havana,  in  Mason  County. 
It  is  situated — lies  on  Berry's  creek,  and  on  the  left 
bank  or  west  side.  The  ground  gradually  slopes  off 
east  and  west,  north  and  south.  A  ribbon  of  small 
timber  runs  up  the  creek.  It  does  not  here  break 
into  groves.  The  creek  runs  northward — i.  e.,  its 
general  course,  and  runs  into  what  is  called  Blue 
Lake  in  the  Sangamon  bottom,  and  thence  running 

16 


into  the  Sangamon  river,  some  three  miles  distant 
from  the  burying  ground.  The  grounds  are  other- 
wise beautifully  situated.  A  thin  skirt  of  timber 
lies  on  the  east,  commencing  at  the  fence  of  the 
cemetery.  The  ribbon  of  timber,  some  fifty  yards 
wide,  hides  the  sun's  early  rise.  At  9  o'clock  the 
sun  pours  all  his  rays  into  the  cemetery.  An  ex- 
tensive prairie  lies  west,  the  forest  north,  a  field  on 
the  east,  and  timber  and  prairie  lie  on  the  south. 
In  this  lovely  ground  lie  the  Berrys,  the  Eutledges, 
the  Clarrys,  the  Armstrongs,  and  the  Jones,  old  and 
respected  citizens,  pioneers  of  an  early  day. 

I  write — or  rather  did  write,  the  original  draft  of 
this  description  in  the  immediate  presence  of  the 
ashes  of  Miss  Ann  Eutledge,  the  beautiful  and  tender 
dead.  "My  heart  lies  buried  here,"  said  Lincoln  to 
a  friend.  I  wrote  in  the  presence  of  the  spirits  of 
David  and  Ann  Eutledge,  remembering  the  good 
spirit  of  Abraham.  I  knew  the  young  man  as  early 
as  1841,  probably  when  he  had  first  commenced  his 
profession  as  lawyer.  The  village  of  the  dead  is  a 
sad,  solemn  place,  and  when  out  in  the  country,  es- 
pecially so.  Its  very  presence  imposes  truth  on  the 
mind  of  the  living  writer.  Ann  Eutledge  lies  buried 
north  of  her  brother,  and  rests  sweetly  on  his  left 

17 


arm,  angels  to  guard  her.  The  cemetery  is  fast 
filling  with  the  hazel  and  the  dead. 

I  shall  now  have  to  take  you  back  with  me  some 
five  years  or  more.  After  Mr.  Lincoln  returned 
from  New  Orleans,  in  1831,  and  after  a  short  visit 
to  his  father  and  mother  in  Coles  County,  in  Illi- 
nois, who  then  lived  on  a  farm  eight  miles  south  of 
Charleston,  the  county  seat  of  Coles  County,  he 
returned  to  New  Salem,  twenty  miles  northwest  of 
Springfield,  now  the  capitol,  and  the  home  of  Lin- 
coln in  1860.  At  that  time  New  Salem  and  Spring- 
field were  in  one  county,  the  County  of  Sangamon. 
Mr.  Lincoln  first  saw  New  Salem  hill  on  the  18th 
day  of  April,  1831,  and  he  must  have  been  struck 
with  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  if  not  with  its  grandeur 
and  sublimity. 

Objects  of  beauty,  objects  of  grandeur,  objects  of 
sublimity,  have  a  supreme  power  over  the  mind, 
elevating  and  expanding  it,  humanizing  and  edu- 
cating it.  These  educate  us,  and  give  us  an  ex- 
panded, ever-widening  view  of  nature  and  of  God. 
It  is  said  that  the  Alpine  heights  with  their  majestic 
sceneries,  make  the  Swiss  a  patriotic,  liberty-loving 
people,  who  have  defied  Austrian  bayonets  for  ages. 
It  is  said  that  the  sacred  hills  and  mountains  around 

18 


Athens,  and  the  great  deep  blue  sea  that  sweeps 
around  her  feet — that  is  to  say,  the  peninsula's  feet 
— made  and  fashioned  her  poets,  statesmen  and 
orators.  New  Salem  had  and  has  some  power  in 
this  way  and  did  have  on  Mr.  Lincoln's  mind.  I 
am  now  necessitated — that  you  may  understand 
much  that  goes  before  and  comes  after — to  describe 
New  Salem  and  her  surroundings. 

I  do  this  for  various  reasons  in  addition  to  what 
I  specially  name,  in  order  to  give  you  a  running 
picture  of  New  Salem — her  rivers,  peaks,  bluffs,  and 
other  views.  I  first  knew  this  hill  or  bluff  as  early 
as  1829.  I  have  seen  it  in  spring  time  and  winter, 
in  summer  time  and  fall.  I  have  seen  it  in  daylight 
and  night  time;  have  seen  it  when  the  sward  was 
green,  living  and  vital,  and  I  have  seen  it  wrapt 
in  snow,  frost  and  sleet.  I  have  closely  studied  it  for 
more  than  five  long  years.  The  town  of  New  Salem 
lies  on  the  west — the  left — bank  of  the  river  Sanga- 
mon,  and  is  situated  on  a  bluff,  which  rises  above 
low  water  mark  in  the  river  about  100  feet. 

The  town  is  on  the  road  leading  from  Springfield 
to  Havana — the  former  in  Sangamon  County  and 
the  latter  in  Mason  County.  New  Salem  hill  was 
once  covered  with  the  wild  forest — tree — not  a  very 

19 


thick  heavy  timber,  rather  barren,  so  called.  The 
forest  was  cut  off  to  make  room  for  the  village, 
which  was  laid  out  in  1828.  It  became  a  trading 
place  at  that  time,  and  in  1836  contained  a  popula- 
tion of  about  100  souls,  living  in  about  20  houses, 
some  of  which  cost  from  $10  to  $100 — none  exceeded 
the  latter  sum.  The  village  had  one  regular,  straight 
street,  running  east  and  west,  the  east  end  resting 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  overlooking  the  Sangamon, 
and  the  west  end  abutting  against  the  forest.  The 
village  runs  along  on  what  is  called  the  backbone 
of  the  hill,  it  sloping  on  the  north  and  south. 

The  north  branch  rises  in  a  meadow  or  field,  about 
three-fourths  of  a  mile  west  of  New  Salem,  and 
sweeps  east,  cutting  a  deep  channel  as  it  rushes  and 
runs.  The  branch  pours  its  waters  in  the  Sanga- 
mon river  about  three  hundred  yards  below  and 
north  of  the  village. 

The  creek  on  the  south — a  larger  and  a  longer 
one  than  the  north  branch — by  its  cuts  and  deep 
channels,  80  or  100  feet  deep,  leaves  New  Salem  on 
the  back  of  the  hill — the  very  backbone  of  the  ridge. 
The  only  and  main  street  was  about  70  feet  wide, 
and  the  backbone  of  the  hill  is  about  250  feet  across 
— sufficiently  wide  for  a  street,  with  lots  180  feet 

20 


deep — till  it  runs  back  westerly  for  some  distance, 
growing  wider,  to  the  then  forest  and  now  meadow 
or  field.  The  hill  on  the  east  end  of  the  street 
where  the  river  runs,  and  which  the  bluffs  boldly 
overlook,  rises  at  some  places  almost  to  perpendic- 
ular heights.  At  other  places  it  rises  from  an  angle 
of  25  to  80  degrees. 

There  is  an  old  mill  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff,  on 
the  Sangamon,  driven  by  water  power.  The  river 
washes  the  base  of  the  bluff  for  about  400  yards, 
the  hill  breaking  off  almost  abruptly  at  the  north. 
The  river  along  this  line  runs  about  due  north;  it 
strikes  the  bluff  coming  around  a  sudden  bend  from 
the  south-east,  the  river  being  checked  and  turned 
by  the  rocky  hill.  The  milldam  running  across  the 
Sangamon  river  just  at  the  mill,  checks  the  rapidity 
of  the  water.  It  was  here  and  on  this  dam  that  Mr. 
Lincoln's  flatboat  "stuck  on  the  19th  of  April, 
1831."  The  dam  is  about  eight  feet  high,  and  220 
feet  long,  and  as  the  old  Sangamon  rolls  her  turbid 
waters  over  the  dam,  plunging  them  into  the  whirl 
and  eddy  beneath,  the  roar  and  hiss  of  waters,  like 
the  low,  continuous,  distant  thunder,  can  be  distinct- 
ly heard  through  the  whole  village,  day  and  night, 
week  day  and  Sunday,  spring  and  fall,  or  other 

21 


high  water  time.  The  river,  at  the  base  of  the  bluff, 
is  about  250  feet  wide.  The  mill  using  up  30  feet, 
leaving  the  dam  only  about  220  feet  long.  Green's 
rocky  branch,  so  called,  which  rises  west  by  a  little 
south  of  New  Salem,  sweeps  eastwardly  and  washes 
the  southern  line  of  the  base  of  the  hill;  it  is  a  nar- 
row, winding  stream,  whose  bottom  is  covered  with 
pretty  little  pebbles  of  all  shapes,  colors  and  sizes. 
Standing  on  New  Salem  hill  and  looking  southward 
some  800  yards  across  a  valley,  rises  the  opposite 
bank  or  bluff  of  the  hill,  made  by  the  branch  or 
double  force  of  branch  and  river.  The  bluff  rises 
to  an  equal  elevation  with  the  Salem  hill,  if  not  a 
little  higher.  The  hills  or  bluffs  are  covered  with  a 
heavy  timber.  The  creek  leaps  and  pours  her  waters 
into  the  Sangamon  just  above  the  milldam,  some- 
times adding  its  rapid  and  clear  and  clean  volume 
to  the  pond.  On  the  eastern  side  of  the  river,  on 
the  right  bank  of  the  river,  looking  east  down  the 
village  street,  running  east  and  west,  the  range  of 
bluffs  rises  generally  to  the  level  of  the  surround- 
ing hills.  The  distance  from  bluff  to  bluff,  across 
the  river,  is  about  1,000  yards,  possibly  1,500  yards. 
The  general  range  of  the  hills  on  the  eastern  side 
of  the  river  is  likewise  bearded  with  timber — the 

22 


wild  forest  trees — mostly  oak,  hickory,  walnut,  ash 
and  elm.  The  bottom,  the  rich  lowlands  that  lie 
between  hill  and  hill,  are  about  800  yards  wide,  pos- 
sibly more,  and  between  peak  and  peak,  hill  and 
hill,  through  this  rich  and  deep  alluvial  soil,  flint 
and  limestone,  chalk  and  sand,  clay  and  lime,  slate 
and  soapstone,  animal  and  vegetable  remains,  rolls, 
washes  and  plays  from  east  to  west,  from  peak  to 
peak,  through  the  ages,  the  eternal  Sangamon,  cast- 
ing and  rolling  sand  and  clay,  flint  and  limestone, 
animal  and  vegetable  debris,  on  either  shore  as  it 
half  omnipotently  wills,  sometimes  kissing  the  feet 
of  one  bluff,  and  then  washing  the  other.  At  other 
times — in  spring  time  or  other  high  water  seasons — 
the  river  at  other  places  is  more  than  a  mile  wide, 
ranging  from  its  head  to  its  mouth.  As  we  look  up 
the  river  southeast,  and  follow  with  our  eyes  its 
winding  course,  beyond  bluff  rises  bluff  on  bluff, 
and  forest  on  forest,  the  first  tier  of  timber  giving 
and  presenting  to  the  eye,  in  the  month  of  October — 
the  time  of  writing  this — a  mellow  green  orange 
color  of  various  shades,  according  to  distance  and 
the  angle  of  view.  The  second  ribbon  of  timber,  ris- 
ing over  the  first  and  beyond,  gives  and  presents 
to  the  eye  a  more  distinct  and  darker  green,  tinted 

23 


with  blue — a  more  uniform  color  and  not  so  abrupt 
in  its  dash,  its  risings  and  swells.  The  third  belt  of 
timber,  still  beyond,  rising  over  the  first  and  second 
timber,  to  the  eye  gives  and  presents  a  still  deeper 
and  more  distinct  blue,  wrapt  in  mist  generated  in 
the  distance,  as  it  rises  and  recedes  in  the  infinite 
east,  leaving  a  clear,  sharp  outline,  less  abrupt  and 
more  uniform  than  either  of  the  closer  ones,  slightly 
undulating,  out  against  the  clear,  clean  blue  eastern 
sky,  measuring  and  fixing  beyond  doubt  the  earth's 
general  level  and  its  rotundity  here.  Down  the 
river,  a  little  east,  is  the  same  general  view,  though 
not  so  beautiful,  not  so  grand,  because  less  distinct 
and  prominent  to  the  eye.  About  two  miles  north, 
in  a  beautiful  valley,  nestles  snugly  the  handsome 
town  of  Petersburg,  which  Lincoln  surveyed  and 
laid  out  in  1836,  and  which  is  now  the  county  seat  of 
Menard  County,  with  a  population  of  about  1,500 
souls.  About  three-fourths  of  a  mile  below  New 
Salem,  at  the  foot  of  the  main  bluff,  and  in  a  hollow 
between  two  lateral  bluffs,  stands  the  house  of  Bolin 
Green,  now  uninhabited.  It  is  a  log-house,  weather- 
boarded;  and  about  the  same  distance  north  from 
Bolin  Green's  house,  now  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff, 
stands  the  building,  the  house  and  home  once  of 

24 


Bennett  Able.  When  the  proper  time  comes  I  shall 
have  to  tell  of  another  quite  romantic  love  story 
that  happened  at  this  house. 

These  descriptions  mean  something,  and  in  our 
historic  evolution  you  will  perceive  the  absolute 
necessity  of  them;  then  you  will  thank  me,  not  be- 
fore, possibly.  New  Salem,  Petersburg,  Green's 
and  Able 's  houses,  all  lie  on  the  western  bank  of  the 
river,  namely  on  the  left-hand  shore.  These  bluffs, 
houses,  and  general  scenery  give  a  beautiful  appear- 
ance to  the  eye.  I  cannot  truthfully  say  they  rise  to 
the  grand,  yet  they  are  most  beautiful  indeed. 

When  I  wrote  the  original  of  this  on  my  knee,  I 
was  on  the  hill  and  bluff,  the  sun  was  just  climbing 
upward  out  of  the  forest  in  the  east,  hanging  over 
the  timber  like  a  fire-wheel,  climbing  and  rolling 
up  the  deep  unmeasured  immensities  above  me.  The 
morning,  the  15th  day  of  October,  1866,  was  misty, 
cloudy,  foggy  and  cold.  The  orb  of  day  soon  dis- 
sipated and  scattered  mist  and  fog,  cloud  and  cold. 
The  Circuit  Court  of  Menard  County  had  adjourned 
and  my  business  was  finished,  and  I  was  free,  at 
least  for  one  day.  I  sat  down  to  write  amid  the  ruins 
of  New  Salem.  Only  one  lone  and  solitary  log  hut 
was  in  view — all  that  remains  of  New  Salem;  it  is 

25 


one-story  high,  had  two  doors,  two  chimneys,  two 
rooms,  fronts  north,  and  is  a  log  house,  weather- 
boarded  with  plank.  Abraham  has  been  in  it  possi- 
bly a  hundred  times. 

The  logs  are  hewed  a  little,  simply  faced.  The 
chimneys  are  one  at  the  east  end  and  the  other  at 
the  west  end  of  the  house.  On  the  south  of  the 
house  stands  now  a  smoke  house  of  plank,  a  seem- 
ingly newer  erection.  My  guide,  a  new  man,  sat  at 
my  right  hand,  my  feet  in  the  ruins  of  the  town, 
and  close  to  me,  and  a  little  southwest,  rang  and 
rolled  out  and  tinkled  the  ring  of  a  lone  cow  bell, 
rattling,  tapping  and  sounding  here  and  there,  as 
the  cow  browsed  along  the  hills.  The  roll  and  roar 
of  the  Sangamon  is  distinctly  heard  eastward,  as 
the  waters  curl  and  leap  over  the  dam  and  plunge 
into  the  stream  beneath.  Lincoln  has  heard  it  often, 
and  though  he  is  gone,  it  rolls  and  roars  on,  and 
will  for  ages  yet  to  come.  All  human  life  is  tran- 
sient, Nature  permanent.  Life  is  but  for  an  instant, 
Nature  is  eternal.  Why  burn  the  short  span  of  our 
human  life  by  undue  use  and  haste. 

As  I  sat  on  the  verge  of  the  town,  in  the  presence 
of  its  ruins,  I  called  to  mind  the  street  running 
east  and  west  through  the  village,  the  river  east- 

26 


ward,  Green's  rocky  branch,  with  its  hills,  south- 
ward; Clarry's  Grove  westerly  about  three  miles; 
Petersburg  northward  and  Springfield  southeast, 
and  now  I  cannot  exclude  from  my  memory  or 
imagination,  the  forms,  faces,  voices,  and  features 
of  those  I  once  knew  so  well.  In  my  imagination, 
the  little  village  perched  on  the  hill  is  astir  with  the 
hum  of  busy  men,  and  the  sharp,  quick  buzz  of 
women ;  and  from  the  country  come  men  and  women 
afoot  or  on  horseback,  to  see  and  to  be  seen ;  to  hear 
and  to  be  heard;  to  barter  and  exchange  what  they 
have  with  the  merchant  and  laborer.  There  are 
Jack  Armstrong,  and  Win.  Green,  Kelso  and  Jason 
Duncan,  Alley  and  Cameron,  Hill  and  McNamara, 
Herndons  and  Rutledges,  Warburton  and  Sincho, 
Bale  and  Ellis,  Abraham  and  Ann. 

Oh!  what  a  history.  Here  it  was  that  the  bold, 
rattling  and  brave  roysterer  met  and  greeted  roys- 
terer;  bumper  rang  to  bumper,  and  strong  friend 
met  friend  and  fought  friend,  for  friendship's  sake. 
Here  it  was  that  all  strangers,  every  new  comer,  was 
initiated  quickly,  sharply  and  rudely,  into  the  lights 
and  mysteries  of  western  civilization.  The  stranger 
was  compelled,  if  he  assumed  the  appearance  of  a 


27 


man,  to  walk  through  the  strength  and  courage  of 
naturally  great  men. 

They  were  men  of  no  college  culture,  but  they 
had  their  many  and  broad,  well  tested  experiences, 
good  sense  and  sound  judgment,  and  if  the  stranger 
bore  well  his  part,  acted  well,  he  at  once  became, 
thenceforward,  a  brother  of  the  clan  forever.  But 
if — but  if  he  failed,  he  quickly,  amid  their  mocking 
jeers,  sank  out  of  sight  to  rise  no  more  ^  or  existed 
as  an  enemy  stranger,  to  be  killed  anywhere  at  first 
sight  by  any  of  the  clan,  and  to  be  forever  damned 
to  the  eternity  of  their  unending  scorn,  or  scorched 
in  the  social  hell  forevermore.  This  is  no  fancy  pic- 
ture. It  existed  as  I  have  told  it,  and  Lincoln  had 
to  pass  it.  He  did  it  nobly  and  well,  and  thence- 
forward held  unlimited  sway  over  the  clan.  Lin- 
coln did  it  by  calm,  cool  courage  and  physical 
strength.  He  said  to  the  clan  one  day — "If  you 
want  and  must  have  a  fight,  prepare."  The  word 
prepare,  with  the  courage  and  body  behind  it,  set- 
tled the  affair.  The  clan  had  seen  him,  strapped,  lift 
in  a  box  in  the  old  mill,  a  thousand  pounds. 

They  knew  his  courage  well,  and  the  word  prepare, 
settled  all.  Here  it  was  that  manly  honesty  with 
womanly  tenderness,  valor,  strength,  and  great  nat- 

28 


ural  capacity,  went  hand  in  hand,  however  absurd  it 
may  appear  to  the  world.  I  affirm  the  truth  of  this 
here  and  now.  Such  a  people  the  world  never  sees 
but  once,  and  such  people!  I  knew  them  all;  have 
been  with  them  all;  and  respect  them  all.  A  man 
with  vastly  greater  powers  than  I  possess  might 
well  quail  from  the  task  of  writing  the  history  of  the 
men  and  times  of  New  Salem.  This  is  the  ground  on 
which  Lincoln  walked,  and  sported,  joked  and 
laughed,  loved  and  despaired,  read  law,  studied  sur- 
veying and  grammar,  read  for  the  first  time 
Shakespeare  and  Burns,  and  here  it  was  that  his 
reason  once  bent  to  its  burdens.  And  oh!  how  sad 
and  solemn  are  New  Salem 's  memories  to  me.  The 
spirit  of  the  place  to  me  is  lonely  and  yet  sweet.  It 
presides  over  the  soul  gently,  tenderly,  yet  sadly. 
It  does  not  down.  It  does  not  crush.  It  entices  and 
enwraps.  May  the  spirits  of  the  loved  and  loving 
dead  here  meet  and  embrace,  as  they  were  denied 
them  on  earth.  A  friend  of  mine,  who  knew  Mr. 
Lincoln  as  well  as  I  did,  and  whose  judgment  I 
always  respect,  profoundly  so,  said  that  if  Mr. 
Lincoln  had  married  Ann  Eutledge,  the  sweet,  tender 
and  loving  girl,  he  would  have  gravitated  insensibly 
into  a  purely  domestic  man ;  that  locality,  home,  and 

29 


domesticity,  were  the  tendencies  of  Mr.  Lincoln; 
that  the  love  and  death  of  the  girl  shattered  Lin- 
coln's purposes  and  tendencies;  that  he  threw  off 
this  infinite  grief  and  sorrow  to  the  man,  and  leaped 
wildly  into  the  political  arena  as  a  refuge  from  his 
despair.  Another  gentleman  agrees  with  this,  and 
affirms  that  Lincoln  needed  a  whip  and  spur  to 
rouse  him  to  deeds  of  fame.  I  give  no  opinion  now 
for  want  of  space.  The  affirmation  or  denial  needs 
argument  to  my  mind. 

As  I  clambered  from  bluff  to  bluff,  crossing 
streams  and  hollows,  which  ran  into  the  creek,  flow- 
ing thence  into  the  river,  I  tread  on  and  pass  the 
wild  mistletoe,  so  called,  green,  living  moss,  clinging 
to  rock  and  sandy,  cold,  shaded,  damp  clay.  The 
ferns  and  low  creeping  vines  cover  the  hillsides  here. 
While  I  was  taking  the  notes  of  this  lecture  on  the 
spot,  I  sat  in  the  infinite  past,  ages,  where  they 
have  written  their  origin,  creation,  their  growth, 
their  development,  death  and  decay,  on  the  coal  and 
rock  records  of  Nature,  that  lay  at  my  feet  and  rose 
above  my  head.  The  blue  sky  above  me,  however, 
refuses  to  vegetable  and  to  man  her  clear,  clean  blue 
leaves,  whereon  to  record  their  creation,  growth, 
death  and  decay.  One  as  he  sits  in  the  present,  on 

30 


the  past,  cannot  avoid  thinking  and  speculating  on 
the  immense,  endless,  boundless,  infinite  future,  in 
this  world  and  that  to  come.  The  day  on  which  I 
took  my  notes  was  the  15th  day  of  October,  A.  D. 
1866.  The  frost  had  scorched  the  leaves  of  the 
forest,  and  they  hung  dry,  curled  and  quivering  in 
the  winds,  as  they  sighed  and  moaned.  Death  rides 
everywhere,  but  life  has  begun  everywhere  before 
death  comes. 

Death  is  a  natural  condition  of  life  and  life  a 
condition  of  death.  Which  is  the  normal  one?  Are 
death  and  life  normal?  As  I  wander  up  Green's 
rocky  creek,  say  one  mile  from  its  mouth,  I  cross  the 
stream  and  climb  along  the  northern  face  of  the  hill, 
where  the  sun  seldom,  if  ever,  warms  the  sod. 

The  rolling  brook  has,  here  and  there,  beds  or 
groups  of  long,  green,  waving  moss,  that  waves  from 
bank  to  bank,  not  upward  and  downward  from  bot- 
tom to  top.  This  moss,  called  here  deer  moss, 
is  from  three  to  six  feet  long,  is  vital,  living  and  a 
beautiful  pale  green.  Lichen  clings  to  the  rocks, 
and  the  short  green  forest  moss  grows  luxuriantly 
here;  and  as  it  seems  to  me  ages  on  long  ages  ago, 
as  the  frozen  waters  swept  and  rushed  southward 
from  their  icy  homes,  on  the  Laureutian  hills,  with 

31 


huge  rocks,  called  boulders,  in  their  frozen  arms, 
they  threw  them  at  the  northern  face  of  the  hill,  and 
piled  them  at  random  here  and  there.  These  rocks 
rest  or  stand  imbedded  in  the  hill,  south  of  New 
Salem,  at  every  elevation  on  its  sides,  and  in  every 
angle  of  its  face.  One  of  these  boulders  seems  as  if 
it  came  from  some  fiery  pool,  and  not  from  the 
northern  pole.  It  has  the  looks,  and  smell,  and  feel 
of  fire  on  it.  On  the  southern  face  of  another  hill, 
across  the  branch,  not  far  from  where  I  stood  at  the 
rock  just  described,  I  heard  the  rock  quarrier's  iron 
rod  ring  out  steel-like,  as  it  bit  and  bored  its  way 
through  the  thick  limestone  ledges,  rock  on  rock, 
sounding  through  valley  and  over  hill.  Here  are 
lime-burners'  kilns,  and  coal  diggers'  shafts,  hori- 
zontal, going  under  the  hill,  or  perpendicular,  eighty 
feet  or  more,  to  reach  the  third  great  stratum  of 
Illinois  coal,  deposited  here  millions  of  years  now 
gone  by. 

I  returned  to  New  Salem  hill  again  and  now,  as 
I  intently  gaze  over  the  whole  field  and  scene,  to  my 
left,  a  little  to  the  northeast,  lies  beautifully  what 
is  called  Baker's  prairie,  about  one  mile  off,  stretch- 
ing out  eastward  two  and  one-half  miles  long,  by 
one  and  one-quarter  miles  wide.  The  prairie  on 

32 


the  east  side  of  the  river,  and  the  bottom  land  on 
the  west  side  of  the  river,  seem  to  me  to  be  halves 
of  a  common  lake  through  which  the  Sangamon  river 
originally  cut  and  burst.  The  bottom  on  the  west 
side  of  the  river,  just  north  of  Salem,  is  three- 
fourths  of  a  mile  wide,  by  one  and  a  half  miles  long. 
The  prairie  on  the  east  side  contains  probably  fifteen 
hundred  acres  of  rich — the  very  richest  alluvial  soil, 
and  the  bottom  on  the  west  side  contains  about  eight 
hundred  acres  of  the  same  kind  of  sod  and  soil. 

The  whole  supposed  lake,  the  eastern  and  the 
western  side  of  the  rolling  river,  is  surrounded  by 
hill  and  bluff,  that  rise  to  an  equal  elevation  with 
the  Salem  hill.  The  Sangamon  river  runs  into  the 
lake  at  the  south,  and  runs  out  at  the  north.  These 
hills,  bluffs,  and  peaks  surrounded  this  lake  before 
the  great  sea — long,  long  before  the  great  sea  of 
waters  passed  off  southward,  between  Missouri  and 
Kentucky,  roaring  into  the  great  gulf  below. 

These  hills  are  bearded  with  heavy  forest  trees. 
Now,  all  over  these  hills  and  valleys  are,  here  and 
there,  next  little  frame  houses,  and  large,  rich,  and 
beautiful  fields,  clothed  in  green  meadows  and  yel- 
low, ripened  corn.  Barns,  orchards,  and  wheat 
stacks  dot  the  plain,  where  once  probably  floated 

33 


the  shark  or  other  monster  of  the  deep,  or  browsed 
the  mastodon  and  other  beasts.  In  the  spring  and 
summer  all  the  lands  are  covered  with  rich  meadows, 
wheat,  oat  and  barley  fields,  over  whose  surface 
floats  the  clouds,  chasing  clouds,  casting  their  shad- 
ows of  various  shapes  and  sizes  on  the  ground,  cov- 
ered with  grass  and  grain;  and  as  the  wings  of  the 
wind  gently  move  over  the  plains  and  fields,  varied 
shades  and  colors,  deep  green,  pale  green,  ripening 
into  straw,  salmon,  dark  straw  and  bright,  in  long, 
wide,  wild  waves,  chase  and  follow  each  other  as 
wave  runs  on  and  rolls  after  wave,  in  the  ocean's 
sport  and  play.  Do  not  forget,  never  forget,  that 
Lincoln  gazed  on  these  scenes,  which  aided  to  edu- 
cate him.  Never  forget  this  for  one  moment.  Did 
he  love  the  beautiful  and  grand?  If  he  did  those 
faculties  were  developed  here.  Eemember  it  was 
amid  these  scenes  he  loved  and  despaired,  and — but 
I  must  pass  on. 

While  on  my  winding  way,  at  my  right  hand  and 
on  my  left,  in  front  of  me  and  beneath  my  feet,  I 
saw  and  was  met  and  greeted  by  the  wild  aster — 
blue,  purple  and  white — whose  blossoms  stand 
trembling  on  their  wiry  stem  in  the  wind.  The  blue 
lobelia,  the  morning  and  evening  primroses,  the 

34 


shrubby  acacia,  growing  ten  inches  high,  filled  with 
yellow  blooms,  and  the  tall,  huge  mullen,  whose 
single  shaft  runs  up  from  three  to  six  feet  high,  and 
whose  broad,  hairy,  or  velvety  leaves  lie  broad  and 
flat  on  the  ground — the  very  emblem  of  desolation — 
were  scattered  here  and  there.  Other  flowers  were 
here. 

In  the  early  spring,  in  the  first  days  of  March,  on 
the  southern  slope  or  face  of  the  New  Salem  hill, 
comes  first  in  the  floral  train,  the  blue  and  purple 
johnny,  with  which  all  western  children,  in  their 
tender    youth,    fight  rooster  in  the    early    spring. 
Soon  follows  the  hardy,  perennial  mountain  phlox, 
on  the  eastern  side  of  the  hill,  where  the  sun  first 
strikes  it  square  in  the  face,  an  evergreen  in  winter, 
sending  up  in  early  spring  from  a  common  crown, 
ten  or  twenty  stalks  with  many  flowers  on  their 
slender  stems,  and  on  whose  heads  come  and  go 
many     peach-colored    blossoms    with    five     petals, 
blooming  from  March  to  May.     These  grow  about 
six   inches   high.     Then   follows,  on   the    southern 
slope  of  the  hill,  the  purple  phlox,  called  the  wild 
sweet-william,  growing  about  ten  inches  high,  and 
blooming  from  April  to  June.    They  too  are  hardy 
and  perennial — they  may  almost  be  called  perpetual 

35 


bloomers,  taking  all  localities  and  situations  into 
account.  At  last,  according  to  moisture,  light  and 
heat,  they  girdle  the  hill  on  three  sides — south,  east 
and  north,  and  finally  running  back  through  the 
woods,  to  and  through  the  prairies  westerly.  The 
blue  bell  comes  with  its  hundreds  tubular,  purple 
flowers,  flaring  at  the  mouth,  bending  in  beauty  and 
humility  to  the  ground.  The  meadow  lily  is  here, 
with  its  from  two  to  four  orange-colored  flowers. 
The  lady  slipper,  called  the  whippoorwill  shoe  by 
some,  and  the  asclepias,  red  and  orange,  are  here. 
The  Judas  tree,  called  the  red-bud,  colors  in  spring 
the  forest's  view.  The  may-apple  and  the  wild 
dielytra,  the  wild  hyacinth,  the  wild  pansy,  and  the 
butter  cup,  among  other  fibrous,  tuberous,  and  bulb- 
ous rooted  flowers,  hardy  and  perennial,  are  like- 
wise here,  growing  in  patches  or  groups.  The  wild 
scarlet  honey-suckle,  and  the  sweet-scented  clematis, 
throw  their  tendrils  from  limb  to  limb  of  hazel  and 
haw,  and  climb  up  high  towards  the  sun,  adding 
their  beauty  to  the  scene. 

The  bignonia  climbs  the  elm  of  the  valley,  and  the 
maple  of  the  bottom;  and  in  and  during  the  year, 
each  of  the  flower  named  here  comes  and  blooms, 
seeds  and  dies,  according  to  its  floral  season.  The 

36 


wild,  fiery  scarlet  Indian  pink  is  scattered  broad- 
cast over  the  hill,  and  we  must  not  forget  the  haw, 
the  crab  apple  and  the  plum,  whose  united  fragrance 
of  a  dewy  morning  or  evening,  cannot  be  excelled  in 
the  floral  world.  The  bushy  dwarf  and  running 
wild  rose  squats  or  climbs  all  over  and  around  the 
place.  All,  all  these  flowers  come,  bloom,  have  their 
passions,  form  and  bear  their  seeds,  and  perish ;  and 
yet  come  again,  making  the  ages  one  grand  floral 
procession;  and  yet,  and  yet  how  few,  oh!  how  few 
men  and  women  ever  look  upon  and  study  these 
beauties  of  valley  and  hill. 

The  fruit  of  this  and  the  neighboring  hills,  woods, 
valleys  and  forests,  is  the  blackberry,  the  raspberry 
and  the  dewberry,  the  red  and  black  haw,  the  crab- 
apple,  the  plum,  strawberry,  the  cherry,  the  hack- 
berry,  and  the  paw-paw.  Here  are  the  walnut,  the 
hickory  nut — black  and  white,  hard  shell  and  soft 
shell — the  acorn  in  variety,  and  the  grape,  summer 
and  fall,  small  and  fox,  sweet  and  sour. 

The  birds  that  come,  sing,  mate,  raise  their 
young,  and  go  or  stay,  are  the  eternal,  universal  and 
uneasy  jay,  the  wood  cock,  the  wood  pecker,  the 
robin  and  the  dove,  the  duck  and  wild  pigeon,  the 
quail  and  the  wild  goose,  the  prairie  hen  and  turkey, 

37 


the  martin  and  bee  bird,  the  raven  and  the  crow,  the 
owl  and  whipporwill,  birds  of  night,  the  wren  and 
swallow,  the  eat  bird  and  thrush,  the  snow  bird  and 
snipe,  the  king  fisher,  the  oriole,  the  humming  bird, 
and  above  all  and  over  all,  floats  high,  the  gray  or 
bold  bald  eagle. 

The  timber  and  forest  trees  on  the  high  and  back 
grounds,  are  the  oak  in  variety,  the  hickory  in  va- 
riety, sugar  tree,  walnut,  ash,  cherry  and  elm.  The 
timber  in  the  bottom  is  mostly  elm,  buckeye,  syca- 
more, cottonwood,  maple  and  the  huge  oak.  I  do 
not  name  all  the  trees,  only  some  of  the  leading  ones. 
The  river's  edges  are  lined  and  filled  and  fringed 
with  the  climbers,  and  the  willows  that  grow  run- 
ning and  wild  over  its  waters. 

The  river  and  creeks  give  abundance  of  fish,  such 
as  the  pike  and  cat,  salmon  and  sucker,  bass  and 
buffalo,  perch  and  red-horse,  gar  and  sturgeon.  The 
forests  are  full  of  game,  such  as  deer,  turkey,  squir- 
rel, quail,  coon  and  o 'possum,  mink,  muskrat  and 
rabbit. 

Probably,  I  had  better  say  the  forest  was  once  full 
of  game,  and  the  river  full  of  fish.  The  game  and 
fish  are  fast  going.  Game  once  served  for  sport, 
fun,  chase  and  food,  for  cheer  and  life;  and  if  the 

38 


western  eye  could  see  its  game,  and  his  fore-finger, 
educated  to  the  feel,  could  but  softly  touch  the  well 
set  hair  trigger  of  his  own  long,  close  shooting  and 
trusty  gun,  away  goes  as  quick  as  lightning,  the  fast, 
hissing,  leaden  bullet,  and  down  drops  life  in  man 
and  woman.  Such  were  our  people,  and  here  they 
lived,  loved,  bore  and  died. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  eastward,  across 
the  river  from  New  Salem,  on  the  bluffs,  mounds  and 
peaks,  may  be  found  by  thousands,  the  dead  of  the 
Silurian  period  of  the  world,  millions  of  years  gone 
by.  We  find  the  periwinkle,  the  bivalve,  and  other 
such  shells  in  abundance,  with  other  higher  animal 
remains.  The  sand  bars  on  the  river's  edge  and  in 
the  river,  present  and  give  up  to  man  the  dead  of  all 
past  time;  and  all  around,  all  beneath,  and  above 
are  life  and  death,  and  all  is  the  past,  the  present, 
and  the  future,  meeting,  mingling,  mixing  and  sink- 
ing into  one — God,  who  is  all. 

There  have  been  four  distinct  and  separate  waves 
— classes  of  men,  who  have  followed  each  other  on 
the  soil  we  now  daily  tread.  The  first  is  the  Indian. 
The  second  is  the  bee  and  beaver  hunter,  the  em- 
bodied spirit  of  western  and  southwestern  pioneer- 
ing; they  roam  with  the  first  class,  nomads,  wander- 

39 


ing  Gipsies  of  the  forests  and  the  plains.  The  third 
class,  with  sub-classes  and  varieties,  is  composed 
of  three  distinct  varieties  of  man,  coming  as  a  triple 
wave.  The  first  is  the  religious  man,  the  John  the 
Baptist,  preaching  in  the  wilderness;  the  second  is 
the  honest,  hardy,  thrifty,  active  and  economical 
farmer,  and  the  third  is  composed  of  the  wild,  hardy, 
honest,  genial  and  social  man — a  mixture  of  the  gen- 
tleman, the  rowdy,  the  roysterer;  they  are  a  wild, 
rattling,  brave,  social  and  hospitable  class  of  men; 
they  have  no  economy,  caring  only  for  the  hour,  and 
yet  thousands  of  them  grow  rich ;  they  give  tone  and 
cast  and  character  to  the  neighborhood  in  spite  of 
all  that  can  be  said  or  done ;  they  are  strong,  shrewd, 
clever  fellows;  it  is  impossible  to  outwit  or  whip 
them.  The  fourth  class,  with  sub-classes  and  va- 
rieties, have  come  among  us  seeking  fortune,  po- 
sition, character,  power,  fame,  having  ideas,  philoso- 
phy, gearing  the  forces  of  nature  for  human  uses, 
wants  and  purposes.  They  come  from  the  East, 
from  the  Middle  States,  from  the  South;  they  come 
from  every  quarter  of  the  globe,  full  grown  men. 
Here  are  the  English  and  the  German,  the  Scotch 
and  the  Irish,  the  French  and  the  Scandinavian,  the 
Italian,  the  Portuguese,  the  Spaniard,  Jew  and  Gen- 

40 


tile;  and  here  and  there  and  everywhere  is  the  uni- 
versal, the  eternal,  indomitable  and  inevitable 
"Yankee,"  victorious  over  all,  and  I  as  a  "Sucker", 
say  welcome  all.  All,  all,  however,  have  their  divine 
purposes  in  the  high,  deep,  broad  and  wide  extended, 
the  sublime  economy  of  God. 

I  am  necessitated,  as  it  were  in  self-defense,  to 
speak  some  words  of  the  second  and  the  third  class, 
with  sub-classes  and  varieties.  The  fourth  class 
needs  none. 

The  original  western  and  southwestern  pioneer — 
the  type  of  him  is  at  times  a  somewhat  open,  candid, 
sincere,  energetic,  spontaneous,  trusting,  tolerant, 
brave  and  generous  man.  He  is  hospitable  in  his 
tent,  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  stars  in  the 
heavens,  by  which  he  travels,  more  or  less;  he  is 
acquainted  with  all  the  dangers  of  his  route — horse 
flesh  and  human  flesh.  He  trusts  to  his  own  native 
sagacity — a  keen  shrewdness,  and  his  physical  pow- 
er— his  gun  and  dog  alone.  The  original  man  is  a 
long,  tall,  lean,  lank  man ;  he  is  a  cadaverous,  sallow, 
sunburnt,  shaggy  haired  man ;  his  face  is  very  sharp 
and  exceedingly  angular;  his  nose  is  long,  pointed, 
and  keen,  Eoman  or  Greek  as  it  may  be;  his  eyes 
are  small,  gray  or  black,  and  sunken,  are  keen,  sharp 

41 


and  inquisitive,  piercing,  as  if  looking  through  the 
object  seen,  and  to  the  very  background  of  things; 
he  is  sinewy  and  tough,  calm  or  uneasy,  according 
to  circumstances;  he  is  all  bone  and  sinew,  scarcely 
any  muscle ;  is  wise  and  endless  in  determinations- 
obstinate.  He  wears  a  short  linsey-woolsy  hunting 
shirt,  or  one  made  of  soft  buck  or  doe  skin,  fringed 
with  the  same;  it  is  buckled  tightly  about  his  body. 
His  moccasins  are  made  of  the  very  best  heavy  buck. 
His  trusty  and  true  rifle  is  on  his  shoulder,  or  stands 
by  his  side,  his  chin  gracefully  resting  on  his  hand, 
which  covers  the  muzzle  of  the  gun.  The  gaunt, 
strong,  hungry  cur,  crossed  with  the  bull  dog,  and 
his  hound,  lie  crouched  at  his  feet,  their  noses  rest- 
ing on  and  between  their  forepaws,  thrown  straight 
out  in  front,  ready  to  bound,  sieze,  master  and  de- 
fend. The  lean,  short,  compact,  tough  and  hardy, 
crop  eared,  shaved  mane  and  bob-tailed  pony 
browses  around,  living  where  the  hare,  the  deer, 
mule  or  hardy  mountain  goat  can  live.  It  makes  no 
difference  where  night  or  storm  overtakes  him,  his 
wife  and  children  sleep  well  and  sound,  knowing  that 
the  husband,  the  father,  protector  and  defender  is 
safe  from  all  harm. 
He  sleeps  on  his  rifle  for  pillow,  his  right  hand 

42 


awake  on  the  long,  sharp,  keen  hunting  knife  in  the 
girdle,  carved  over  and  over  with  game  and  deer. 
The  will  in  the  hand  is  awake.  Such  is  the  conscious 
will  on  the  nerve  and  muscle  of  the  hand,  amid  dan- 
ger of  a  night,  placed  there  to  keep  watch  and  ward 
while  the  general  soul  is  asleep,  that  it  springs  to 
defense  long  before  the  mind  is  fully  conscious  of 
the  facts.  How  grand  and  mysterious  is  mind! 
The  family  makes  no  wild  outcry — "He's  shot  or 
lost!"  This  man,  his  trusty  long  rifle,  his  two  dogs 
— one  to  fight  and  one  to  scent  and  trail — the  long, 
sharp  and  keen  butcher  knife,  that  never  holds  fire 
or  flashes  in  the  pan,  are  equal  to  all  emergencies. 
As  for  himself,  his  snores  on  the  grass,  or  brush-pile, 
cut  to  make  his  bed,  testify  to  the  soul's  conscious 
security.  Whether  in  a  hollow  tree  or  log,  or  under 
and  beneath  the  river's  bank  for  shelter — screen  or 
fort — in  night  or  daytime,  his  heart  beats  calm;  he 
is  a  fatalist,  and  says,  "What  is  to  be,  will  be."  He 
never  tires,  is  quick  and  shrewd,  is  physically  pow- 
erful, is  cunning,  suspicious,  brave  and  cautious  al- 
ternately or  all  combined,  according  to  necessity.  He 
is  swifter  than  the  Indian,  is  stronger,  is  as  long- 
winded,  and  has  more  brains.  This  man  is  bee  hunt- 
er, or  trapper,  or  Indian  fighter.  He  is  shy,  nervous, 

43 


uneasy,  and  quite  fidgety  in  the  villages  where  he 
goes  twice  a  year  to  exchange  his  furs  for  whisky, 
tobacco,  powder,  flints  and  lead.  He  dreads,  does 
not  scorn,  our  civilization.  Overtake  the  man,  catch 
him,  and  try  to  hold  a  conversation  with  him,  if  you 
can.  His  eye  and  imagination  are  on  the  chase  in 
the  forest  when  you  think  you  are  attracting  his 
simple  mind.  He  is  restless  in  eye  and  motion  about 
towns  and  villages ;  his  muscles  and  nerves  dance  an 
uneasy,  rapid,  jerking  dance  when  in  presence  of 
our  civilization.  He  is  suspicious  here,  and  danger- 
ous from  his  ignorance  of  the  social  world.  This 
man  is  a  man  of  acts  and  deeds,  not  speech ;  he  is  at 
times  stern,  silent,  secretive  and  somewhat  uncom- 
municable.  His  words  are  words  of  one  syllable, 
sharp  nouns  and  active  verbs  mostly.  He  scarcely 
ever  uses  adjectives,  and  always  replies  to  ques- 
tions asked  him—' ' Yes, " " No, " " I  will, ""I  wont. ' ' 
Ask  him  where  he  is  from,  and  his  answer  is — 
"Blue  Ridge,"  "Cumberland,"  "Bear  Creek."  Ask 
him  where  he  kills  his  game,  or  gets  his  furs,  and 
his  answer  ever  is — "Illinois,"  "Sangamon,"  "Salt 
Creek."  Ask  him  where  he  is  going — "Plains," 
"Forests,"  "Home,"  is  his  unvarying  answer.  See 
him  in  the  wilds,  as  I  have  seen  him,  strike  up  with 

44 


bis  left  hand's  forefinger  the  loose  rim  of  his  old 
home-made  wool  or  other  hat,  that  hangs  like  a  rag 
over  his  eyes,  impeding  his  sight  and  perfect  vision, 
peering  keenly  into  the  distance  for  fur  or  game, 
Indian  or  deer.  See  him  look  and  gaze  and  deter- 
mine what  the  thing  seen  is — see  him  at  that  instant 
stop  and  crouch  and  crawl  toward  the  object  like  a 
wild  hungry  tiger,  measuring  the  distances  between 
twig  and  weed  with  his  beard,  so  as  to  throw  no 
shadow  of  sensation  on  the  distant  eye  of  foe  or 
game — the  thing  to  be  crept  on  and  inevitably  killed. 
See  him  watch  even  the  grass  and  brush  beneath  his 
feet,  as  he  moves  and  treads,  that  no  rustle,  or 
crack  or  snap,  shall  be  made  by  which  the  ear  of  foe 
or  game  shall  be  made  aware  of  his  danger.  See 
him  carefully  wipe  off  and  raise  his  long  and  trusty 
gun  to  shoulder  and  cheek — see  him  throw  his  eye 
lockward  and  along  the  barrel — watch  him,  see  the 
first  upcoil  of  smoke,  before  the  crack  and  ring  and 
roll  and  roar  comes.  The  bullet  has  already  quickly 
done  its  work  of  death.  Caution  makes  this  man 
stand  still  and  reload  before  moving  a  foot.  Then  he 
eyes  the  dead  keenly.  "There's  danger  in  the  ap- 
parent dead,"  he  whispers  to  himself,  cocks  his  gun 
and  walks,  keeping  his  finger  on  the  trigger. 

45 


The  third  class  I  am  about  to  describe — the  brave, 
rollicking  roysterer — is  still  among  us,  though 
tamed  by  age  into  a  moral  man.  He  is  large,  bony, 
muscular,  strong  almost  as  an  ox.  He  is  strongly 
physically  developed.  He  is  naturally  strong  mind- 
ed, naturally  gifted,  brave,  daring  to  a  fault.  He  is 
a  hardy,  rough  and  tumble  man.  He  has  a  strong, 
quick  sagacity,  fine  intuitions,  with  great,  good  com- 
mon sense.  He  is  hard  to  cheat,  hard  to  whip  and 
still  harder  to  fool.  These  people  are  extremely  so- 
ciable and  good  natured — too  much  so  for  their  own 
good,  as  a  general  rule.  They  are  efficient,  ready, 
practical  men,  and  are  always  ready  for  any  revolu- 
tion. I  wish,  I  am  anxious,  to  defend  these  men,  as 
well  as  the  God-given  spirit  of  pioneering.  One  of 
the  writers  on  Mr.  Lincoln's  life  says,  speaking  of 
Thomas  Lincoln,  "When  inefficient  men  become  very 
uncomfortable  they  are  quite  likely  to  try  emigra- 
tion as  a  remedy.  A  good  deal  of  what  is  called  the 
pioneer  spirit  is  simply  the  spirit  of  shiftless  dis- 
content." But  more  of  this  hereafter,  not  now  and 
just  here. 

These  men,  especially  about  New  Salem,  could 
shave  a  horse's  mane  and  tail,  paint,  disfigure  and 
offer  him  for  sale  to  the  owner  in  the  very  act  of  in- 

46 


quiring  for  his  own  horse,  that  knew  his  master,  but 
his  master  recognizing  him  not.  They  could  hoop 
up  in  a  hogshead  a  drunken  man,  they  being  them- 
selves drunk,  put  in  and  nail  down  the  head,  and  roll 
the  man  down  New  Salem  hill  a  hundred  feet  or 
more.  They  could  run  down  a  lean,  hungry  wild 
pig,  catch  it,  heat  a  tin-plate  stove  furnace  hot,  and 
putting  in  the  pig,  could  cook  it,  they  dancing  the 
while  a  merry  jig.  They  could,  they  did,  these  very 
things  occasionally,  yet  they  could  clear  and  clean 
a  forest  of  Indians  and  wolves  in  a  short  time ;  they 
could  shave  off  a  forest  as  clean  and  clear  as  a  man's 
beard  close  cut  to  his  face ;  they  could  trench  a  pond, 
ditch  a  bog  or  lake,  erect  a  log  house,  pray  and  fight, 
make  a  village  or  create  a  state.  They  would  do  all 
for  sport  or  fun,  or  from  necessity — do  it  for  a 
neighbor — and  they  could  do  the  reverse  of  all  this 
for  pure  and  perfectly  unalloyed  deviltry's  sake. 
They  attended  church,  heard  the  sermon,  wept  and 
prayed,  shouted,  got  up  and  fought  an  hour,  and 
then  went  back  to  pray,  just  as  the  spirit  moved 
them.  These  men — I  am  speaking  generally — were 
always  true  to  women — their  fast  and  tried  friends, 
protectors  and  defenders.  There  are  scarcely  any 
such  on  the  globe  for  this  virtue.  They  were  one 

47 


thing  or  the  other — praying  or  fighting,  creating  or 
destroying,  shooting  Indians  or  getting  shot  by 
whisky,  just  as  they  willed.  Though  these  men  were 
rude  and  rough,  though  life's  forces  ran  over  the 
edge  of  its  bowl,  foaming  and  sparkling  in  pure  and 
perfect  deviltry  for  deviltry's  sake,  yet  place  be- 
fore them  a  poor  weak  man,  who  needed  their  aid, 
a  sick  man,  a  man  of  misfortune,  a  lame  man,  a 
woman,  a  widow,  a  child,  an  orphaned  little  one, 
then  these  men  melted  up  into  sympathy  and  char- 
ity at  once,  quick  as  a  flash,  and  gave  all  they  had, 
and  willingly  and  honestly  toiled  or  played  cards 
for  more.  If  a  minister  of  religion  preached  the 
devil  and  his  fire,  they  would  cry  out  "to  your  rifles, 
oh  boys,  and  let's  clean  out  the  devil,  with  his  fire 
and  all,  they  are  enemies  to  mankind."  If  the  good 
minister  preached  Jesus  and  him  crucified,  with  his 
precious  blood  trickling  down  the  spear  and  cross, 
they  would  melt  into  honest  prayer,  praying  hon- 
estly, and  with  deep,  deep  feeling  and  humility,  say- 
ing aloud,  "would  to  God  we  had  been  there  with 
our  good  trusty  rifles  amid  those  murderous  Jews." 
I  wish  to  quote  the  author 's  sentence  again,  it  reads 
— "When  inefficient  men  become  very  uncomfort- 
able, they  are  quite  likely  to  try  emigration  as  a  rem- 

48 


edy.  A  good  deal  of  what  is  called  the  pioneer  spirit 
is  simply  the  spirit  of  shiftless  discontent."  Here 
are  two  distinct  allegations  or  assertions,  rather 
charges :  1st,  that  inefficient  men,  through  the  spirit 
of  discontent  at  home,  emigrate  as  a  remedy  for  that 
uncomfortableness ;  and  2nd,  that  a  good  deal  of  the 
spirit  of  pioneering  comes  from  the  spirit  of  shift- 
less discontent.  I  wish  to  say  a  few  words  on  this 
sentence,  and  first  as  to  fact,  and  secondly,  as  to 
principal.  It  is  not,  I  hope,  necessary  for  me  to 
defend  the  particular  man  spoken  of — Thomas  Lin- 
coln— the  father  of  President  Lincoln.  It  is  not 
necessary  that  I  should  natter  the  pioneer  to  defend 
him,  yet  I  feel  that  other  men  and  women  in  New 
England,  possible  in  Europe,  may  be  grossly  mis- 
led by  such  an  assertion,  such  an  idea,  as  is  con- 
tained in  this  sentence.  It  is  admitted  by  me  that 
man's  condition  at  home  sometimes  is  exceedingly 
uncomfortable.  To  throw  off  that  condition  of  un- 
comfortableness is  the  sole,  only  and  eternal  motive 
that  prompts  and  drives  men  and  women  to  pio- 
neering. Men  of  capacity,  integrity  and  energy — for 
such  are  the  generality  of  pioneers  in  the  west — 
emigrate  to  this  new  land  from  their  own  homes,  not 
because  they  are  inefficient  men,  men  unable  to 

49 


grapple  with  the  home  condition,  but  rather  because 
thy  refuse  to  submit  to  the  bad  conditions  at  home. 
Their  manly  souls  and  indomitable  spirits  rise  up 
against  the  cold,  frigid,  despotic  caste  crystalliza- 
tions at  home — a  glorious  rebellion  for  the  freedom 
of  man.  All  men  emigrate  from  their  homes  to  new 
lands  in  hope  of  bettering  their  human  conditions, 
which  at  home  are  sometimes  chafingly  uncomfort- 
able. The  spirit  of  pioneering  is  not  a  spirit  of 
shiftless  discontent,  nor  any  part  of  it,  but  is  the 
creating  spirit,  a  grand  desire,  wish  and  will  to  rise 
up  in  the  scale  of  being;  it  has  moved  mankind — 
each  man  and  woman  and  placed  them  on  the  globe, 
with  genius  in  their  heads,  and  hope  and  faith  rh 
their  souls.  God's  intentions,  purposes  and  laws,  as 
written  on  the  human  soul,  forever  interpret  them- 
selves thus:  "My  child,  my  good  children,  man, 
woman  and  child,  each  and  all — hope,  struggle,  I 
am  with  you  and  will  forever  be,  go  on,  go  upward, 
go  westward,  go  heavenward,  on  and  on  forever." 
Good  men  and  women  do  not,  from  the  spirit  of  shift- 
less discontent,  quit  the  sacred  ashes  of  the  dead 
loved  ones,  and  wildly  rush  into  a  cold,  damp,  un- 
cleared, gloomy,  unsettled,  wild  wilderness,  where 
they  know  they  must  struggle  with  disease,  poverty, 

50 


nature,  the  wild  wolf  and  wilder  men,  and  the  un- 
tamed and  ungeared  elements  of  nature,  that  sweep 
everywhere  unconfined.  They  do  not  go  for  game, 
nor  sport,  nor  daring  adventure  with  wild  beast, 
nor  daring  sport  with  wilder  men.  They  go  or 
come  at  God's  command — "Children,  my  good  chil- 
dren, one  and  all,  man,  woman  and  child,  all,  all — 
hope,  struggle,  to  better  your  condition — onward, 
forestward,  upward — and  on  and  on  forever,  or 
miserably  perish,  and  quit  the  globe  to  be  repeopled 
by  better  beings. ' ' 

Men,  tender  and  lovely  women,  do  not  quit  their 
homes,  where  are  comforts,  luxuries,  arts,  science, 
general  knowledge  and  ease,  amid  the  civilized  and 
civilizing  influences  at  home,  to  go  westward  from 
a  spirit  of  shiftless  discontent.  "What!  are  these 
brave  men  and  women  all  through  the  west,  and  such 
as  these  the  world  over,  inefficient  men,  inactive  con- 
sumers, unenergetic,  insufficients,  lazy  and  do- 
nothing  people,  bursting  westward  from  the  spirit 
of  shiftless  discontent,  where  they  involuntarily  clap 
their  hands  to  their  heads  and  spasmodically  feel 
for  their  crowns,  in  order  to  preserve  their  scalps, 
as  the  quick  flash  and  fire-steel  gleam  of  the  Indian's 
knife  glints  and  glistens  against  the  western  sky! 

51 


What!  Are  Grant  and  Jackson,  Douglas  and  Ben- 
ton,  Clay  and  Lincoln,  inefficient  men,  coming  west 
from  the  spirit  of  shiftless  discontent?  Is  fire  ef- 
ficiently hot?  Is  lightning  efficiently  active?  Is  na- 
ture efficiently  creative,  massing  and  rolling  up  all 
these  visible  worlds  to  heat  and  light  and  life,  and 
holding  them  suspended  there  by  God's  will — called 
by  men  gravity — for  a  human  idea's  sake?  If  these 
things  are  so,  then  these  men  and  women  whom  I 
have  described,  the  pioneers,  with  their  brave  hearts 
and  their  defiant  and  enduring  souls,  are  and  were 
efficient  men  and  women — efficiently  warm,  for  they 
consumed  and  burnt  the  forest  and  cleared  and 
cleaned  it.  They  had  and  have  energy  and  creative 
activity,  with  capacity,  honesty  and  valor.  They 
created  states  and  hold  them  to  the  Union,  to  liberty 
and  to  justice.  They  and  their  children  after  them 
can  and  do  point  with  the  highest  pride  and  con- 
fidence to  the  deep,  broad-laid,  tolerant,  generous, 
magnanimous  foundations  of  these  mighty  several 
western  states,  whereon  our  liberty  and  civilization 
so  proudly  and  firmly  stand,  that  they,  the  pioneer, 
in  the  spirit  of  pioneering  embodied  in  them,  made 
and  created,  and  hold  up  to  light  and  heat  and  life, 


52 


suspended  there   rolling,    by  the  electro -magnetic 
power  of  the  intelligent  popular  will. 

My  defense  has  ended.  The  wild  animals  that  pre- 
ceded the  Indians  are  gone,  the  Indian  treading 
closely  on  their  heels.  The  red  man  has  gone.  The 
pioneer,  the  type  of  him,  is  gone,  gone  with  the 
Indian,  the  bear,  and  the  beaver,  the  buffalo  and 
deer.  They  all  go  with  the  same  general  wave,  and 
are  thrown  high  on  the  beach  of  the  wilderness,  by 
the  deep,  wide  sea  of  our  civilization.  He  that 
tramped  on  the  heels  of  the  red  man,  with  his  wife 
and  children,  pony  and  dog,  are  gone,  leaving  no 
trace  behind.  He  is  the  master  of  the  bee  and  the 
beaver,  the  Indian  and  the  bear,  the  wolf  and  buff- 
alo. He  and  they  are  gone,  never  to  return.  God 
speed  them  on  their  way,  their  journey  and  destiny. 
As  path  makers,  blazers,  mappers,  as  fighters  and 
destructive,  they  have  had,  and  have  their  uses  and 
purposes  in  the  divine  plan.  Such  are  succeeded 
by  the  Armstrongs,  the  Clarrys,  the  Eutledges,  the 
Greens,  Spears,  and  Lincolns,  who  too  have  their 
uses  and  purposes  in  the  great  Idea,  and  are  suc- 
ceeded by  others,  now  among  us,  who  are  forces  in 
the  same  universal  plan.  And  let  us  not  complain, 
for  the  great  Planner  knows  and  has  decreed  what 

53 


is  best  and  wisest  in  his  grand  and  sublime 
economics.  The  animal  is  gone;  the  Indian  is  gone. 
The  trapper,  bee  and  beaver  hunter  is  gone — all  are 
gone.  A  few  of  the  third  class  still  remain  among 
us,  standing  or  leaning  like  grand,  gray,  old  towers, 
with  lights  on  their  brow,  quietly  inclining,  leaning, 
almost  dipping  in  the  deep,  the  unknown,  the  un- 
knowable and  unfathomable  deeps  of  the  future, 
that  roll  through  all  time  and  space,  and  last  up 
against  the  Throne.  They  did  not  come  here  from 
ihe  spirit  of  shiftless  discontent,  nor  shall  they  take 
up  their  soul's  greatest  pioneering  march  on  to  God, 
through  the  cowardly  spirit  of  shiftless  discontent. 
They  are  fast  going,  one  by  one.  Eespect  them 
while  living,  reverence  them  when  dead,  and  tread 
lightly  on  their  sacred  dust,  ye  all.  The  children  of 
such  may  be  trusted  to  preserve  and  hand  down  to 
all  future  time  what  they  created,  wrought  and 
planted  in  the  forest.  The  fourth  class  is  ready  to 
clasp  hands  with  the  third,  taking  an  oath  of  fidelity 
to  Liberty,  sacred  as  heaven.  We  thus  come  and  go, 
and  in  the  coming  and  going  we  have  shaded — risen 
up,  progressed — during  these  various  and  varied 
waves  of  immigration,  with  their  respective  civili- 
zations, through  force,  cunning  and  the  rifle,  to  the 

54 


dollars,  the  steam  engine,  and  the  Idea.  We  have 
moved  from  wolf  to  mind.  We  have  grown  out- 
ward, upward,  higher  and  better,  living  generally  in 
more  virtue,  less  vice,  longer  and  more  civilized, 
freer  and  purer,  and  thus  man  ever  mounts  upward. 
So  are  the  records  of  all  time. 

Abraham  Lincoln  loved  Ann  Eutledge  with  all  his 
soul,  mind  and  strength.  She  loved  him  as  dearly, 
tenderly  and  affectionately.  They  seemed  made  in 
heaven  for  each  other,  though  opposite  in  many 
things.  As  before  remarked,  she  was  accidentally, 
innocently  and  honestly  engaged  to  A.  Lincoln  and 

Mr. at  one  and  the  same  time.    It  is  said  and 

thought  that  the  young  lady  was  conditionally 
promised  to  Mr.  Lincoln,  to  be  consummated  upon 

a  release  from  her  first  engagement  with  Mr. 

The  primary  causes,  facts  and  conditions  which  led 
to  this  complication  shall  be  related  to  you  at 
another  time  and  place.  There  is  no  dishonor  in  it 
to  any  of  the  three.  In  her  conflicts  of  honor,  duty, 
love,  promises,  and  womanly  engagements — she  was 
taken  sick.  She  struggled,  regretted,  grieved,  be- 
came nervous.  She  ate  not,  slept  not,  was  taken 
sick  of  brain  fever,  became  emaciated,  and  was  fast 
sinking  in  the  grave.  Lincoln  wished  to  see  her. 

55 


She  silently  prayed  to  see  him.  The  friends  of 
both  parties  at  first  refused  the  wish  and  prayer  of 
both,  still  the  wishes  and  prayers  of  both  prevailed. 
Mr.  Lincoln  did  go  to  see  her  about  the  10th  day 
of  August,  A.  D.  1835.  The  meeting  was  quite  as 
much  as  either  could  bear,  and  more  than  Lincoln, 
with  all  his  coolness  and  philosophy,  could  endure. 
The  voice,  the  face,  the  features  of  her;  the  love, 
sympathy  and  interview  fastened  themselves  on  his 
heart  and  soul  forever.  Heaven  only  knows  what 
was  said  by  the  two.  God  only  knows  what  was 
thought.  Dr.  Jason  Duncan,  of  New  Salem,  about 
September,  A.  D.  1833,  had  shown  and  placed  in 
Mr.  Lincoln's  hands  the  poem  called  in  short,  now, 
"Immortality,"  or  properly,  "Oh,  Why  Should  the 
Spirit  of  Mortal  be  Proud?"  Eemember,  Miss  Eut- 
ledge  died  on  the  25th  of  August,  A.  D.  1835,  and 
was  buried  in  the  Concord  cemetery,  six  miles 
north,  bearing  a  little  west,  of  New  Salem,  as  stated 
before.  Mr.  Lincoln  has  stated  that  his  heart,  sad 
and  broken,  was  buried  there.  He  said  in  addition, 
to  the  same  friend,  "I  cannot  endure  the  thought 
that  the  sleet  and  storm,  frost  and  snow  of  heaven 
should  beat  on  her  grave."  He  never  addressed 
another  woman,  in  my  opinion,  "yours  affectionate- 

56 


ly;"  and  generally  and  characteristically  abstained 
from  the  use  of  the  word  "love."  That  word  can- 
not be  found  more  than  a  half  dozen  times,  if  that 
often,  in  all  his  letters  and  speeches,  since  that  time. 
I  have  seen  some  of  his  letters  to  other  ladies,  but 
he  never  says  "love."  He  never  ended  his  letters 
with  "yours  affectionately,"  but  signed  his  name, 
"your  friend,  A.  Lincoln."  Abraham  Lincoln  was, 
by  nature,  more  or  less,  in  tendency,  abstracted — 
had  the  power  of  continuous  concentrated  thought. 
It  may  be,  as  alleged,  that  he  was  a  warm,  ardent 
and  more  or  less  impulsive  man,  before  1834,  and 
of  which  I  give  no  opinion.  He  never  did  care  for 
food — eating  mechanically.  He  sorrowed  and 
grieved,  rambled  over  the  hills  and  through  the 
forests,  day  and  night.  He  suffered  and  bore  it  for 
a  while  like  a  great  man — a  philosopher.  He  slept 
not,  he  ate  not,  joyed  not.  This  he  did  until  his 
body  became  emaciated  and  weak,  and  gave  way. 
His  mind  wandered  from  its  throne.  In  his  imagi- 
nation he  muttered  words  to  her  he  loved.  His 
mind,  his  reason,  somewhat  dethroned,  walked  out 
of  itself  along  the  uncolumned  air,  and  kissed  and 
embraced  the  shadows  and  illusions  of  the  heated 
brain.  Love,  future  happiness,  death,  sorrow, 

57 


grief,  and  pure  and  perfect  despair,  the  want  of 
sleep,  the  want  of  food,  a  cracked  and  aching  heart, 
over  and  intense  thought,  soon  worked  a  partial 
wreck  of  body  and  mind.  It  has  been  said  that  Mr. 
Lincoln  became  and  was  totally  insane  at  that  time 
and  place.  This  is  not  exactly  the  truth.  The  de- 
thronement of  his  reason  was  only  partial,  and 
could  alone  be  detected  by  his  closest  friends,  and 
sharpest  observers,  through  the  abruptness  of  his 
sentences  and  the  sharp  contrasts  of  his  ideas  and 
language.  To  give  you  a  fair  idea,  an  exact  one  of 
his  then  true  mental  state  and  condition  imagine 
Mr.  Lincoln  situated  as  I  have  attempted  to  de- 
scribe. Mr.  Lincoln  had  a  strong  mind,  a  clear  and 
distinct  one.  His  style  and  mode  of  expression  in 
1835,  were  entirely  different  from  what  they  were 
from  1853  to  1864.  He  had  more,  much  more,  emo- 
tion, fancy  and  imagination,  in  1835,  when  he  was 
26  years  of  age,  than  he  had  in  1853  to  1864  when  he 
was  47  to  55  years  of  age.  He  grew  stronger  as  he 
grew  older. 

Did  this  dread  calamity,  of  which  I  have  spoken, 
crush  him  and  thus  modify,  if  it  did  not  change  his 
nature?  It  must  be  expected  that  his  expressions 
would  follow  truly  his  own  rational  thoughts  in  part 

58 


only,  not  wholly  so  in  logic,  at  least.    His  utterances 
and  expressions  would  be  necessarily  disconnected 
and  sharply  contrasted.    It  is  said,  and  I  believe  it, 
that  he  lost  his  logical  faculty — power  over  cause 
and   effect,  and  their  legitimate   relation — through 
the  momentary  loss  of  memory  alone.    Imagine  him 
racked  in  heart  and  body,  in  mind  and  soul,  not 
forgetting  the  immediate  and  proximate  cause  of 
his  condition.     He  must  naturally  and  necessarily 
speak  and  utter  what  is  in  his  own  mind;  sharply 
and  incoherently,    sadly    and    wildly.     Hear  him: 
"What  a  time  for  joy  today  in  town;  the  men  and 
women  looked  so  happy  all  through  the  village.    Ah ! 
me.    No.    Not  today;  its  night.    There's  a  trick  in 
it,  and  where 's  the  fallacy?    Does  nature  deal  un- 
justly?    I  thought  not.     I'll  see  and  tell  myself. 
"Pis  a  rude  wind  that  blows  no  man  joy.     Where 
am  I?     What  strange  woods  are  these.     It  seems 
that  I've  run  my  compass  and  dragged  my  chains 
along  this  path.    Why,  wherefore  is  all  this!  These 
hills  I've  never  seen  before,  and  the  wild  valleys  at 
my  feet  now  have  no  more  familiar  face  for  me. 
What?     'Tis  strange.     How  is  it?     What's  that? 
These  hands  I  think  I've  seen  before,  and  yet  I 
know  them  not.    The  clouds  are  cold,  and  where 's 

59 


fire?  There  it  is!  No,  'tis  not.  How  goes  it  out? 
Who  cheats  me  ?  and  for  what  ?  I  am  sad ;  and  thou 
sweet  bird  of  night,  sing  on  thy  tune  of  whippor- 
will;  ah!  who's  that?  'Tis  her  I  love.  This  path 
and  hill  I  know;  yet  'tis  strange,  strange,  uncom- 
mon strange.  I  know  it  here  and  there,  in  spots. 
Why,  wherefore  is  this?  Who  am  I  and  what,  'mid 
nature's  profoundest  uncertainties,  that  come  and 
go  like  chance,  whither,  no  one  knows.  There,  the 
cocks  crow.  Did  I  not  read — but,  stay,  did  I  not 
read  law  beneath  the  shade  of  this  tree,  grinding 
'round  the  sun?  I  love  her.  Oh!  immensities  above 
me,  below  me,  and  around  me. 

The  dogs,  the  very  dogs  bark  at  me.  These  limbs 
and  legs,  feet  and  hands,  are  mine ;  yet  'tis  strange ! 
and  ah!  thou  mysterious  state  of  things.  Isn't  fate, 
chance,  Providence,  God — that  so  unwinds  the 
world's  and  all  their  life?  Grief!  What's  that? 
I'm  tired  and  weary  .  The  clothes  I've  got  on  and 
wear,  I  know  are  mine,  and  yet  they  seem  not  to  be. 
Ah!  dead  and  gone  from  me  thou  sweet  one;  and 
shall  this  aching,  crushed  heart  of  mine  never  die 
and  feel  the  pangs  of  nature  never  more.  This  old 
mill  I've  seen  before,  and  often  heard  it  grind.  The 
waters  in  the  pond  are  filled  with  shining,  floating 

60 


stars.     Why  don't  they  go  out  and  sink  in  water 
ten    feet  deep,    or  more?      It's  curious,    curious, 
strange  wondrous  strange.    Why,  wherefore  is  that? 
Some  trick  deludes  me.    I'll  search  and  tell  myself. 
Ah !  dead  and  gone,  thou  sweet  one ;  dead  and  buried 
forever,  forever — more,  in  the  grave.    Mortal  man! 
so  it  is,  and  must  be.    Our  hopes  forever  blast  and 
wither  in  their  tender  growth.    What  is  hope?  What 
is  death?    What  is  forever,  evermore,  forevermore? 
Come  gentle  winds  and  cool  my  aching  head;  or, 
thou  hanging  thunderbolt,  swiftly  strike  and  scorch 
me.     What's  that  in  the  mill  pond,  going  splash, 
splash!     'Twas  a  fish,  I  guess.    Let's  go  and  feed 
it,  and  make  it  joy,  and  be  happy.    I  love  her,  and 
shall  marry  her  on  tomorrow's  eve.     So  soul  be 
content,  and  endless  joy  shall  come.    Heart  of  mine 
be  still,  for  remember  sweet  tomorrow  eve.     Oh! 
thou   calmest,  most  boisterous  profoundest   uncer- 
tainties of  things,  hold  off,  or  take  another  path 
not  coming  here.    What !  did  I  dream?    Think ;  what 
did  I  say?    It  cannot  be.    No,  it  cannot  be.    She's 
dead  and  gone — gone  forever.    Fare  thee  well,  sweet 
girl!    We'll  meet  again." 

I  am  not  now  discussing  the  complicated  causes 
of  insanity  in  a  scientific  method.    I  am  not  able  to 

61 


do  so.  I  am  giving  you  a  probable  example  of  what 
Lincoln  was  in  September  A.  D.  1834.  I  give  you 
the  broad  facts.  I  shall  not,  now  and  here,  enter 
into  a  scientific  disquisition  on  lunacy — what  are 
illusions,  or  delusions;  nor  other  false  appearances 
in  the  mind  of  the  insane;  nor  whether  these  illu- 
sions, delusions,  or  other  false  appearances  in  a 
fevered,  wrecked  brain  are  caused  objectively  from 
or  through  irregular  and  feverish  sensations;  nor 
subjectively  by  the  same;  nor  whether  they  come 
from  perceptions  distorted  nor  from  memory  or 
imagination,  abnormally  developed;  nor  from  all 
combined.  One  thing  ought  to  be  certain:  namely, 
that  the  mind  cannot  create  normally,  regularly,  in 
a  wrecked  and  shattered  condition.  Creation, 
through  mental  energy,  is  the  law  of  the  mind;  and 
when  it  cannot  create  lawfully,  regularly,  through 
normal  mental  energy  in  activity,  it  cannot  create 
according  to  its  law.  This  is  the  great  law  of  the 
mind.  Creations  are  distortions  when  the  mind  is 
diseased.  Mental  creations  lift  us  heavenward,  in 
proportion  to  the  number  of  such  creations.  Who 
shall  promulgate  this  great  law  and  teach  it? 

The  friends  of  Mr.  Lincoln — men,   women  and 
children — begged  him  to  quit  his  home  and  place 

62 


of  business.  They  coaxed  and  threatened  him  by 
turns  in  order  to  get  him  to  quit  the  places  and 
scenes  of  his  sorrows  and  griefs.  His  women 
friends  tried  their  arts  on  him.  Men  begged  and 
held  out  strong  inducements  to  go  into  the  country. 
The  boys  and  girls  of  the  town  and  neighborhood 
aided  and  assisted  the  older  people  all  they  could. 
All  tricks  were  detected  by  the  man  the  whole  peo- 
ple so  dearly  loved.  Bolin  Green  and  some  of  his 
and  Lincoln's  special  friends  at  last  tried  their  pow- 
ers. They  succeeded  in  throwing  Lincoln  off  his 
guard  by  robbing  him  of  his  suspicions.  Mr.  Lin- 
coln, in  September,  went  down  to  Bolin  Green's  in 
consequence  of  the  pressure  thrown  on  him  and 
around  him,  and  in  the  space  of  a  week  or  ten  days, 
by  Bolin 's  humor,  generosity  and  hospitality,  his 
care  and  kindness,  aided  by  the  womanly  sympathy, 
gentleness  and  tenderness  of  his  wife,  Lincoln  soon 
rose  up,  a  man  once  more.  He  was  visited  daily  by 
men,  women,  boys  and  girls,  whose  conversation, 
stories,  jokes,  witticisms,  fun  and  sport,  soon  roused 
up  the  man,  thus  enabling  him  to  momentarily  throw 
off  sorrow,  sadness,  grief,  pain  and  anxiety.  They 
walked  over  the  hills  with  him,  danced  for  him, 
read  for  him,  laughed  for  him,  and  amused  him  in 

63 


a  thousand  ways.  He  evidently  enjoyed  all  as  man 
scarcely  ever  enjoyed  two  weeks  before,  nor  since. 
He  got  well  and  bade  adieu,  for  a  short  season,  to 
Bolin's  kind  roof  and  generous  hospitality.  Mrs. 
Bolin  Green  still  lives,  God  bless  her;  she  survives 
her  own  husband,  and  their  ward  and  guest.  Mr. 
Lincoln  went  back  to  New  Salem,  as  thought,  a 
changed,  a  radically  changed  man.  He  went  to 
New  Salem  about  the  last  of  September,  A.  D.  1835. 
He  now  once  more  picked  up,  took  up,  and  read,  and 
re-read  the  poem  called  "Immortality;"  or,  "Oh, 
Why  Should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  Be  Proud?"  He 
saw  new  beauties  in  it.  He  siezed  it,  and  it  seized 
him — a  mutual  seizure  and  arrest.  He  learned, 
learned  it  by  heart,  committed  it  to  memory,  and 
repeated  it  over  and  over  to  his  friends. 

Such  is  the  true  history  of  things — such  are  New 
Salem  and  surrounding  country — such  are  her  hills, 
and  bluffs,  and  valleys.  Such  are  her  geology  and 
her  general  past — such  is  her  floral  world — such  are 
her  fruits,  trees  and  plants,  birds,  fish  and  game — 
and  such  were  and  are  her  people.  Such  is  New 
Salem — such  was  she  in  the  past — such  is  she  now. 
So  is  she  in  the  spring-time,  in  the  summer-time, 
fall  and  winter-time.  So  she  is  in  daylight,  and 

64 


darkness,  beneath  sun,  moon,  and  stars.  So  is  her 
rise — her  growth — her  fall  and  ruin,  death  and  de- 
cay. Such  is  man.  It  was  here  Abraham  Lincoln 
first  came  to  himself,  after  so  great  grief.  It  was 
here,  amid  these  hills  and  peaks,  bluffs  and  valleys, 
creeks  and  paths,  branches  and  rivulets,  he  moved 
among  men  and  women,  walked  and  roamed  sadly, 
gloomily,  frantically,  despairingly,  almost  insanely. 
He  thought  and  reflected  on  man  and  women,  the 

V 

transient  and  permanent, — love,  duty,  nature, 
destiny,  the  past,  present,  and  the  future — of  God. 
It  was  here  he  walked  in  daylight — at  night  time — 
under  the  forest  trees  and  beneath  the  moon's  pale, 
sad  glance,  contemplating  all  human  life,  its  laws 
and  springs,  its  mysterious  ways  and  ends,  his  own 
insignificance,  the  utter  insignificance  of  all  men 
and  things,  the  follies,  foibles,  ambitions  and  cor- 
ruptions, as  compared  with  nature,  laws  and  prin- 
ciples, all  embodied  in  the  permanent,  and  it  in  the 
never-beginning  and  never-ending,  absolute,  un- 
conditioned and  illimitable.  It  was  about  the  20th 
day  of  October,  A.  D.  1835,  that  Abraham  Lincoln, 


65 


as  he  wandered  and  wended  his  sad  and  melancholy 
way  over  hill  and  dale,  gloomily  burst  forth — 

Oh!  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud? — 
Like  a  swift-fleeing  meteor,  a  fast-flying  cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the  wave, 
He  passeth  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave. 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow  shall  fade, 
Be  scattered  around  and  together  be  laid; 
And  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low  and  the  high, 
Shall  moulder  to  dust  and  together  shall  lie. 

The  infant,  a  mother  attended  and  loved: 
The  mother,  that  infant's  affection  who  proved; 
The  husband,  that  mother  and  infant  who  blest, — 
Each,  all,  are  away  to  their  dwellings  of  rest. 

The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow,  in  whose  eye, 
Shone  beauty  and  pleasure — her  triumphs  are  by. 
And  the  memory  of  those  who  loved  her  and  praised, 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased. 

The  hand  of  the  king,  that  the  sceptre  hath  borne, 
The  brow  of  the  priest,  that  the  mitre  hath  worn, 
The  eye  of  the  sage  and  the  heart  of  the  brave, 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  grave. 

The  peasant,  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to  reap, 
The  herdsman,  who  climbed  with  his  goats  up  the  steep, 
The  beggar  who  wandered  in  search  of  his  bread, 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we  tread. 

The  saint,  who  enjoyed  the  communion  of  heaven, 
The  sinner,  who  dared  to  remain  unforgiven, 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and  just, 
Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the  dust. 

66 


So  the  multitude  goes — like  the  flower  of  the  weed. 
That  withers  away  to  let  others  succeed; 
So  the  multitude  comes — even  those  we  behold. 
To  repeat  every  tale  that  has  often  been  told; 

For  we  are  the  same  our  fathers  have  been; 
We  see  the  same  sights  our  fathers  have  seen; 
We  drink  the  same  stream,  we  view  the  same  sun, 
And  run  the  same  course  our  fathers  have  run. 

The  thoughts  we  are  thinking,  our  fathers  would  think; 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking,  our  fathers  would  shrink; 
To  the  life  we  are  clinging,  they  also  would  cling — 
But  it  speeds  from  us  all,  like  a  bird  on  the  wing. 

They  loved — but  the  story  we  cannot  unfold: 
They  scorned  but  the  heart  of  the  haughty  is  cold; 
They  grieved — but  no  wail  from  their  slumber  will  come; 
They  joyed — but  the  tongue  of  their  gladness  is  dumb. 

They  died — ay,  they  died — we  things  that  are  now, 
That  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their  brow, 
And  make  in  their  dwellings  a  transient  abode, 
Meet  the  things  that  they  met  on  their  pilgrimage  road. 

Yea!  hope  and  despondency,  pleasure  and  pain, 
Are  mingled  together  in  sunshine  and  rain; 
And  the  smile  and  the  tear,  the  song  and  the  dirge, 
Still  follow  each  other,  like  surge  upon  surge. 

'Tis  the  wink  of  an  eye — 'tis  the  draught  of  a  breath, 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness  of  death; 
From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and  the  shroud: — 
Oh!  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud? 


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